


a chance to taste this

by meritmut



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: Her lips are so close he could kiss her just by shifting his weight—so close he can feel the rush of air against his chin as she exhales, her shoulders slumping like a weight has been lifted from them.Give it to me,he thinks, barely making sense even to his own mind.Let me carry it for you.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 39
Kudos: 134
Collections: Comfort Gems 2020





	a chance to taste this

**Author's Note:**

> And you haven't had a chance yet to taste this  
> fragments of a life you shouldn't miss  
> — poets of the fall, 'all the way / 4u'

“How do you know how to do all this?”

Ben glances over his shoulder, unable to help a smile when he sees Rey looking up at him from where she sits hunched over the table, cheeks bulging, already loading up another forkful of spicy noodles even as she works on the last.

“Do what?”

“Cook,” she exclaims, encompassing her bowl and the rest of the  _ Falcon’s _ tiny kitchen in the sweep of her hand. “All  _ this.” _

Ben feels his cheeks grow hot the way they always do when his efforts are weighed and measured, and shrugs lightly. “I’m learning.”

Rey cocks her head curiously, those feline eyes bright with interest. “You like it?”

He looks down at the pan still hissing away on the stovetop, the little dollop of batter just starting to turn brown around the edges. Drop-scones, just the way his father used to make them—one of the few things Han  _ could  _ reliably make. They had been Ben’s favourite, growing up, and even now it feels strange being the one cooking them when they’re so bound in his memory to those long journeys through the black, playing dejarik and wrestling with Chewie while Han cobbled together a hasty supper; the memories that until recently were the best of his life.

It’s been so long since he thought in such terms, of  _ liking  _ and  _ not-liking,  _ since it’s even crossed his mind to wonder if something might bring him pleasure. Rey brings him pleasure, with her smiles and her laughter and her unabashed appetite for life. Being with her, watching her discover and explore and devour everything the galaxy has to offer reminds him how to do the same, so it feels that after a lifetime of darkness he walks every day in the sun, each moment brighter for sharing it with her.

He feels more deeply  _ alive  _ than he has in years and so much of that is down to her, but there’s still too much poison inside him to draw out; too many layers of shame and self-abnegation still to excavate before he can even begin to ponder the question of what brings him joy. Eventually, he settles on the simplest truth. “I like making you happy.”

Alarm rushes cold through him when her eyes flood with tears.

“Rey?" Abandoning the stove, Ben flies to her side and sinks to one knee before her, his heart clenching as he takes in her stricken features. She stares at him, lost for words, and this close he can see the virid flecks in her eyes, the freckles scattered like wandering stars across her cheeks; the way she bites her lip to hold back some inner tide. “What’s wrong?”

Rey shakes her head, managing a damp smile as she wipes clumsily at her eyes, while her other hand comes to rest over his on her knee and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“You’re learning for me?” Her voice hitches a little: the brittle, uncertain hope there makes a lump rise in Ben’s own throat. He turns his hand so he can weave his fingers with hers, reaching up with the other to thumb away a rogue tear. Her eyes flutter closed, and the way she leans into his touch heals a wound inside he had almost forgotten was there.

“I’ll cook for you every day,” he tells her solemnly, just as the faintest whisper of singed batter reaches his nose and a rueful smirk betrays his attempt at earnestness. “It may not always be edible, but I’ll do it.”

With a spluttery laugh Rey tips forward in her seat until she can rest her forehead against his, her lips so close he could kiss her just by shifting his weight—so close he can feel the rush of air against his chin as she exhales, her shoulders slumping like a weight has been lifted from them.  _ Give it to me,  _ he thinks, barely making sense even to his own mind.  _ Let me carry it for you. _

“I don’t care if it’s edible,” she murmurs. “You made it.”

He can’t  _ not  _ kiss her for that, any more than he can help the grin that moves his lips against hers. “You say that now.”

Rey hums amusedly into the kiss. “I might have to issue a retraction if you don’t rescue those scones.”

“Shit,” Ben mutters, pushing himself to his feet and dropping one last kiss against her brow before he scarpers back to the kitchen to see what—if anything—can be salvaged.

It’s not  _ that _ much of a disaster. One side of the scone is decidedly crispier than the other, and definitely a bit charred toward the middle, but a little syrup and it’ll still taste fine. He’s always liked the ones that verged on overdone, anyway, and it’s not like Rey’s picky. It’s just...he’d wanted to get it right. She deserves that.

After everything, a good meal is the very  _ least  _ she deserves.

It doesn’t help, knowing he could set a stack of onboard rations down in front of her and she would devour them with equal gusto. He wants to give her good things. Delicious things. He wants to find new ways to make her smile, to repay in whatever way he can the smiles she coaxes out of him every day.

And maybe the thought of failure no longer fills him with such crushing, suffocating terror, and he’s almost more embarrassed to be so ashamed of a singed pancake than he is of the cockup itself, but his body still stiffens with the impact of remembered punishments—of being chastised for the smallest infraction until the very possibility of a misstep left him shaking with animal fear. Taking a deep breath, Ben consciously uncurls his fists and reaches to knock the pan off the heat before the damned scone really  _ is  _ beyond saving, and slowly exhales some of that tension out.

Stupid, he thinks.

The ghost of a hand settles on his shoulder: memory overcomes him.

_ First one’s always a bit rough, kid. Here, why don’t I take that one? The next one’ll be better. And if not, Chewie likes ‘em burned anyway. _

The hand becomes two arms, slender and strong, winding around his sides to wrap around his middle. Rey rests her cheek against his back.

“Thank you,” he hears her mumble.

Tilting the pan with one hand to let the drop-scone tip onto a plate, Ben covers her hands with the other. His breathing falls effortlessly into sync with hers, the two of them wreathed in the contented luminance of the Force. 

“Anytime.”


End file.
